


A Place On Earth

by caravanslost



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: "We can get drunk in a simulation", (sort of?), Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Cryogenics, M/M, Roman Catholicism, San Junipero, Steve Rogers-centric, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 06:23:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11307540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravanslost/pseuds/caravanslost
Summary: "They did this research here, Sam. They wanted to see if they could preserve life, even after the death of a body. They figured out how to isolate a person's consciousness. Then they take it, and upload it into a simulated reality programme, and that person can continue to exist."--Bucky goes back under the ice in Wakanda. Steve chases him through four decades and back.





	1. The Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bopeep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bopeep/gifts).



The night before Bucky went back under cryo, Steve almost asked to stay with him.

But when they had dinner that night, Steve saw something in Bucky’s face that he hadn’t seen since maybe 1938. It took him a while to work out what it was, but it came to him eventually -- it was peace. Steve had become accustomed to seeing a certain, hard set to Bucky’s face, but on that night it was absent.

They finished eating and went for a walk in the lush, dense garden surrounding Bucky’s quarters. They didn’t say very much to each other. Although Steve wanted to talk, he sensed that Bucky was comfortable in the silence, so he let him have it. In the end, he didn’t ask about staying, even though the question remained on the tip of his tongue all night.

Steve eventually returned alone to his quarters, with a weight the size of a boulder sitting on his chest. It did not let him sleep, and it kept wakeful vigil with him till the following morning. By the time he got out of bed, it had grown to twice the size.

* * *

The Royal Wakandan Laboratories were located in a distant wing of the sprawling Royal Complex. He got there early and walked the distance, which took him from one end of the structure to the other. It helped that the route was lined on one side, often two, with floor to ceiling windows. Each of them overlooked dense green forestry and an endless horizon. It almost felt like being outside.

The closer he came to the Laboratories, the more frequently his Identification was checked and re-checked at barrier points. Everyone knew him by name and face and still, they requested his paperwork or retinal scans. It had never bothered him. If it meant keeping Bucky secure, he would have endured any number of checkpoints, so long as they allowed him through.

The doors to the medical suite where Bucky would be returned to cryo were flanked by two Dora Milaje, Shura and Daris. T’Challa had delegated both of them exclusively to Bucky’s safekeeping, immediately upon arrival in Wakanda. They said very little to Steve, but they shared enough of an understanding to stand aside and let him through with a brisk nod.

For what it was, the room behind them was as beautiful as a medical laboratory could be. It reminded Steve of Tony’s favourite workspace, only without the experimental clutter. The border of the room was a separate level, elevated and accessible by various sets of steps, dotted around the room. Three of the walls were a kaleidoscope of black computer screens, with data in a dusky orange. What wasn’t taken up by computer screens was occupied with equipment and medical storage, all of it behind glass,

In the middle of the room, taking pride of place, was the cryo machine. It looked more merciful than what the Soviets had used to keep Bucky. Still - just looking at the machine filled Steve with rage, both at what had been done to Bucky in the past, and what would now take him away from Steve again.

Next to it was a medical gurney, and on that gurney, in a white singlet and white pants, was Bucky. He was speaking to Dr Ka’la, T’Challa’s Chief of Medical Research, a small woman in her late 50s with a kind smile and more qualifications than everyone else in any given room. As she spoke, Bucky noticed Steve come into the room and sent him a small smile.

He hovered near the door to give them some space, and busied himself looking at one of the large screens on the wall, It showed data relating to the cryo machine's internal temperature controls, but Steve couldn't make any sense of it.

The firm click of heels on the floor drew back his attention. Dr Ka’La approached him, tablet in hand.

“Captain Rogers.” She said pleasantly.

“Morning. How is he?”

“He is in good health to commence cryogenic stasis. His vitals are stable. He is well. The procedure can begin, as soon as he is ready.”

“Thank you.”

“You will need some time alone with Sergeant Barnes. Please take as long as you need.”

“Appreciated. Thank you.”

“You already have, Captain.” She said, smiling.

“It’s never going to feel like enough.”

“We will leave you. Sergeant Barnes knows how to call me back. Again - please take your time”

She took her leave of him with a nod, and the doors to the suite hissed open to let her out. Steve watched her leave, and then made his way over to Bucky, who watched him approach. Steve shoved his hands in his pockets. He didn’t know what else to do with them, or indeed, what the protocol was for anything like this.

“You doing okay?” Steve asked.

“Yeah. They were checking my pulse and pressure. Kid stuff. You’d think I was having my appendix removed.” Bucky said. “Like they do this all the time.”

“You seem calm. That’s good.”

“I am, I think. But if I’m being honest, I miss the days when the sick one was you.” Said Bucky, smiling apologetically.

Steve’s eyebrows shot up. _Holy hell_ , he thought to himself. _He’s trying to be funny, now, of all times._

“James Buchanan Barnes," he said, with a pause for emphasis after each name. "Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Yeah. It is. You might want to reacquaint yourself with them, Rogers. For Sam’s sake, if not for yours.”

“I thought you and Sam weren’t friends.”

“We’re not. But he'll have to bear with you for the next while, on his own. That I can sympathize with, at least.”

On his run earlier that morning, Steve had been trying to anticipate how this conversation would play out. He had run through dozens of permutations, preparing himself for everything from sadness to anger to indifference on both their parts. In the midst of all that, he hadn’t expected Bucky to be light.

“You sure you’ll be okay in there?”

Bucky turned back to look at the machine. He regarded it for a few moments, then turned back to Steve.

“I trust them. Are you sure you’ll be okay out here?

“I’ll be fine. Focus on yourself.”

Bucky didn’t respond, and fell silent. Steve had met that kind of silence before. It mean that Bucky was about turn the conversation back to him.

“I want to say something.” Bucky said. “Before I go under, I need to make sure that you understand a thing or two.”

“I understand plenty.” Steve replied indignantly.

“Debatable, but we’ll have that fight later.” Bucky said. “For now, I need you to understand that this might not work, and that I’m okay with that, and that you need to be okay with it too.”

Steve took a look around the room. “They know what they’re doing.”

“ _No one_ knows what they’re doing with this. No one can. This has never happened before. It might fail. It might make things worse. It might kill me at best. At worst, it might fry my brain in a way they can’t unscramble.”

“Or,” Steve began firmly, “it might not.”

Bucky continued speaking, ignoring his suggestion. “If this thing ruins me, one way or another, just promise me you won’t do that thing you do.”

Steve frowned. “What thing I do?”

“The thing where you wear your heartache on your sleeve for the rest of your scientifically enhanced goddamn life. I can’t handle the thought of ruining your life twice over, Steve. I need to know that you’re realistic about the outcomes of this whole, -- “, and he waved a hand around the room, “ --- God, I don’t even know what to call it. This whole thing.”

“You can expect the worst. I’ll hope for the best. We can strike a healthy medium between us.”

“Steve.” Bucky said, tone turning sharp. “This is uncharted science. I don’t know what a healthy medium looks like. _They_ don’t know. The consent documents and liability waivers needed their own folder, for God’s sake.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t give a shit. All I care about is that you’re taking a shot at getting better, and that you’re taking the whole goddamn shot.”

Bucky raised his hands tiredly. “Fine. Fine. Be optimistic. At your peril. I’m gonna call the doctor back, okay?”

“Already?”

“The longer we talk, the harder this gets.”

Steve shrugged, and sighed, and suddenly, he found himself regretting everything they had just said.

“Your call.” He said, and then added. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” Bucky said. “Thank you.”

He leaned over to the headboard of the gurney and pressed a black button in the corner. Within a minute, Dr Ka’La returned to the laboratory, this time with three of her staff behind her. Steve stood back and watched the room set into motion without him. Bucky gave him a final, sad smile.

Then, he walked over to the machine, stepped in, and closed his eyes. A few moments later, glass rose up to cover him. The three staff took their places behind their computer and began typing, and Dr Ka’La stood behind them giving directions that Steve didn’t hear.

He watched Bucky, and wondered how many times they would have to say goodbye in one lifetime.

Dr Ka’La eventually turned her attention to Steve. “Captain Rogers. We have the intercom open. Any final words you’ld like to say to the Sergeant?”

Steve sighed. He paused. He didn’t speak immediately and no one rushed him.

“See you in three weeks, then. Maybe.”

He was rewarded with a smile from Bucky. “Oh yeah. There’s always that.”

Steve turned back to Dr Ka’La. “Thank you. That’s all.”

Bucky closed his eyes, and somehow, he looked better, healthier, than Steve had seen him in a long time.  As the gas rose to cover him, Bucky gave one deep, final exhale, and every muscle in his face relaxed. The peace Steve had seen in him the night before was writ large in his expression, and now it was made permanent. Steve could have sworn he was just asleep. 

* * *

In the three weeks that followed, Steve stormed the Raft, returned everyone to Wakanda, and made an undercover trip to the United States and back with Natasha to gather intelligence. Living in hiding wasn’t ideal, but it kept him busy during Bucky’s absence, and he felt that absence like a hole in his chest that could not be filled - not even with Natasha, or Sam, or Wanda, or any and all of them combined.

Sam agreed to move into Steve’s quarters in any case, and Steve was grateful for the company. He needed someone around, and he had missed Sam.

Between missions, Sam maintained a defiant attachment to the habits of an ordinary daily life. He forced himself to sleep at reasonable hours. He trained. He cooked. His ability to carve normalcy out of abnormality elicited a deep respect from Steve, as much as the same behaviour eluded him entirely.

When Steve emerged at 7 am one morning, exactly three weeks after Bucky had gone under cryo, Sam was already at the kitchen island making breakfast. Steve tried to act normal.

Sam’s cooking seemed to involve their entire supply of eggs, and various vegetables that Steve had never seen, along with a few that he had. Steve murmured a bleary good morning and made a beeline for the coffee before wandering around the house aimlessly, picking things up and putting them back down again to no end, wondering how early was too early to head to the laboratory. He settled on reading the newspaper at the dining table.

Eventually, Sam called out to him across the room, hands busy with a knife over macerated tomatoes.

“You seem rushed, Rogers.”

“Do I?” Steve replied, not looking up from his paper.

“Third time you’ve forgotten your coffee this morning.” Sam continued. Without looking up, he gestured with the knife in the direction of the living area. “There. On the table in front of the TV.”

Steve looked to the dining table in front of him and realized that indeed, his mug was missing. _Christ_ , he thought to himself. He sheepishly retrieved it and went to the microwave, and passed the minute it took to reheat it by staring at a second newspaper, without reading a word.

“So.” Sam said, throwing the word over his his shoulder, back at Steve. “You gonna tell me what’s up with you this morning, or what?”

“I’m fine.”

“Need I remind you that I have a knife?” Sam pointed out. “And that I’m handy with it?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, I swear.” Then, for fear of having sounded curt, he added, “But thanks for asking.”

“Steve.” Sam said, tone dropping by an octave, like a disapproving schoolteacher. “I’m making my ass an omelette in _Wakanda_ because I am concerned with you. Talk to me.”

The microwave pierced through the silence with three shrill beeps. Steve retrieved his mug and went to the other side of the kitchen island. Sam briefly glanced up at him before returning his attention to his vegetables.

“I.” Steve began, and stopped. He had never had to explain what was about to happen before, and his mind racked over the best way to do it. “I’m going to see Bucky.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, and swept the tomatoes into a wooden bowl with the blade of his knife. He pulled a pale yellow vegetable from the basket next to him, and sunk the knife into it.

“You’re going to sit in the room with the cryo chamber?

“No. Not like that. I’m going to -- well -- _actually_ see him. And interact with him, maybe. If it works okay. We still don’t know if it will.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not explaining it well.”

“Take your time.”

Steve thought back to the afternoon when Bucky had asked him to come to Dr Ka’La’s offices. That was the first day he had met her, and the first day he had learned of the SIRE initiative. That meeting had lasted an hour. Steve tried to reach for the CliffsNotes version.

“This is going to sound insane.”

“I take that as a given with you.”

"They did this research here, Sam." Said Steve. "They wanted to see if they could preserve life, even after the death of a body. They figured out how to isolate a person's consciousness. Then they take it, and upload it into a simulated reality programme, and that person can continue to exist."

“Barnes isn’t dead, though.” Sam pointed out.

“No, of course not.” Steve conceded. “But they can isolate a living person’s consciousness in the same way, temporarily. They use the procedure on people in comas. And they let people visit their loved ones, whether they’re in a coma or deceased, in the program.”

He watched Sam carefully for a reaction, but did not get one. Sam reached for a carrot and began to julienne it.

“And this program.” Sam said. “That’s where Barnes is gonna be? And where you’re going?”

“Yeah.”

“So,” Sam continued. “Bucky’s in The Matrix.”

“Not exactly, but I can see why you went there.”

Sam looked up, surprised. He met Steve’s eyes and smiled wryly.

“Well, colour me impressed. I didn’t think you would know The Matrix.”

“Clint made me a list. I’m still getting through it,” Steve said, waving away the point. “But you’re right, maybe, in the sense that there’s a separate level where people are living. It’s completely isolated from the real world, for one. And it’s a second chance for people who are dead, or dying, or in a coma - if their minds are still functional.”

“What does this simulation look like?”

“Like the normal world. They have a Washington, and London, and Beijing, and everything in between. They have every decade you could want, too. Once you’re in, you can switch into anything from the beginning of the 20th Century till now. It’s like a fairground, if they built fairgrounds on an infinite scale.”

“Where are they sending you two?”

“To completely isolated simulations, for safety reasons. The only other real person with him will be me. Apparently, the program creates simulated people to fill in the crowds.”

Sam put his knife down and run his hands under the water. He picked up a tea towel and wiped them dry, switched on the hot water kettle, and looked at Steve with concern.

“Why all this? Why not just leave him be, and let the doctors do what they need to do?”

“The doctors suggested it. They want me to go and observe and take notes, so they can keep tabs on how Bucky’s doing.”

“So you’re effectively spying on him.”

“Yeah. But with his consent.”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know, man. You do you. But if I was in your position - and I fully take on board that I’m not - I’d be _done_ with experimental science.”

* * *

Three hours later, Steve found himself waiting for Dr Ka’La in a medical suite the size of an average hospital room. It was equipped like a hospital room as well, with a bed and a number of chairs, as well as a clinician's desk. Wherever the room was - and he wasn’t quite sure - it was at ground level, and the glass wall facing east overlooked a small pond canopied by dense trees. It was a sunny day, but little light made it through the thick foliage overhead. Steve could hear a bird singing somewhere.

He waited for Dr Ka’La on the bed, which was high enough that his feet barely reached the ground. The muted _hiss_ of the sliding doors eventually announced her presence.

She came in alone, holding a small black tablet in her hand. He felt a bit better now that there was someone else in the room with him, and some of Dr Ka’La’s calm eventually made its way over to him, as it did with everything he had encountered in this building. Her staff and her labs operated like peaceful extensions of herself.

He stood up to greet her, and hovered by the bed, unsure of what to do with himself.

A corner of her lips quirked at his reaction. He felt like his nerves had been read. She nudged her glasses up and then gestured towards the bed.

“Captain Rogers.”

“Dr Ka’La. Thank you for coming.”

“Please. Relax. Take a seat back on the bed.”

He did as he was told, and watched her tap the screen of her tablet for a while. Various compartments hissed open from one wall, and screens came to life on another. The room suddenly became alive with silent machines.

Eventually, she swapped the tablet for a small band of black fabric that Steve recognized as a blood pressure monitor.

“May I have your arm, Captain.”

He stuck it out for her, she wrapped the sleeve around it, and he felt it expand around his skin. It grew uncomfortably tight, but he kept his mouth shut.

“Please.” He said. “Call me Steve.”

“Very well.” She said, removing the sleeve and  donning a stethoscope. “Bear with me for a few moments.”

“Is everything okay?”

“A routine medical.” She said, resting the diaphragm over his chest and listening intently. He flinched at the touch of the cool metal, but if she noticed, she didn’t say anything. Whatever she heard seemed to be to her liking, and she smiled reassuringly before putting the stethoscope away. “You will understand, I am sure,” she continued, reaching for her tablet again, “that the procedure can exact a heavy physical toll on participants. Anyone who has made it as far as you has general medical clearance, but last minute checks harm no one.”

“Even for me?”

“Men are men, even if they are superhuman. Protocol is protocol. But I assure you - you are fine.”

“Thank you.”

“You say that more often than you need to, Captain. But you are most welcome.”

To some extent, she was right. In the last month, he had probably given more thanks than he had in his entire life previously. He found himself thanking the doctors, T’Challa, the entire cadre of Dora Milaje that had been detailed to protect them, every member of the Royal Household and staff that had crossed their path. The words seemed to spill from him hourly.

And they were always accepted with a polite grace, like there was no need for them, even though there was _every_ need. Steve had no right to expect such hospitality. The debt was unrepayable.

“I mean it.”

“I appreciate that you do. But remember that the process is mutually beneficial. You gain the chance to see your friend, we gain two test subjects. Science advances, and everyone makes the history books.” She smiled. “Well, here in Wakanda, at least.”

Steve thought back to Sam’s words from earlier in the day.

“I think I’ve had enough history for one lifetime, Dr Ka’La.”

She nodded sympathetically. “I can only imagine. But - and you will forgive me for saying so - I do not think that history is done with you.”

He hoped she was wrong, but he knew she was probably right.

“Please lie down, Captain. We are ready to begin. This will take a few moments only.”

Steve did as he was told, and tried to regulate his breathing. He stared up, and as Dr Ka’La made her final preparations, he began counting the number of tiles in the ceiling. There were seventy two.

Eventually, she approached him and inserted a subcutaneous drip into his left forearm. The thin, clear tube was connected to an IV drip-stand next to his bed. It supported a bag containing a liquid of a brilliant blue.

“Keep your eyes open.” She instructed him. “Take mental notes. You will have time to recover when you return, but the reliability of your observations will depend heavily on the speed with which you record them.”

“Understood.”

“Please lift your head.” She said. He raised himself slightly off the pillow, which allowed her to place a thin cap, laden with concealed electrodes, over his head. Dr Ka’La secured it in place, and returned to her tablet to tap a number of buttons.

“Give my regard to Sergeant Barnes and the 1930s.”

“I will.” He replied, and watched as the blue liquid slowly came funnelling through the drip, approaching his arm.

“And _try_ to enjoy yourself, Captain. It might even help.” She said, before turning to him and adding with a wry smile, “If you still remember how to do so.”

Steve didn’t argue back. He could not protest the un-protestable.

“You should meet Sam,” he said instead.

“Staff Sergeant Wilson?”

“Yeah, that guy.”

“Interesting. Sergeant Barnes said the same thing.”

“You would get along.”

“Well then. You must introduce us. I will see you in two hours.”

The blue liquid reached his skin, and entered his bloodstream, and Steve was out before he could think of a response.

* * *

Steve came to, but slowly. He began hearing noises before he even thought to open his eyes. Where he was waking up seemed louder than where he had fallen asleep. He could have sworn he heard a car, maybe even the excited sounds and shrieks of children. But he was still tired. His body felt like lead, and he rolled over, burying his face in the pillow,. The fabric of one of the blankets scratched roughly against his cheek.

That sensation - simple, mundane, tactile - awakened him. The procedure had worked, and the realization dissolved whatever had been holding back his adrenaline. Steve leapt out of the bed, and almost fell over onto the floor in the process.

He steadied himself by reaching for the nearest solid surface he could find - the desk. Once he had regained his balance, he found himself staring at it. It was large and Art Deco styled, all figured walnut and with a set of rounded drawers on either side. It reminded him of a smaller, cheaper, worn version that he used to own, way back when. It reminded him of his ma, and the hours she had passed after work sitting at it, writing letters or reading.

Steve closed his eyes and pulled himself together. He rubbed his face. He had to go find Bucky.

He took a look down at himself too, for good measure. It still looked like him. He ran the fingers of one hand over the other, and the touch felt like skin on skin ought to. He pinched his arm, and felt pain. He was in a singlet and briefs.

Steve then went to the window and pulled back the curtain, and found himself unmistakably back in the 1930s.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, to no one in particular.

There were fewer cars around, for starters. The cars he _could_ see were now relegated to museums in the real world, and he visited them like old friends. He counted a Duesneberg Tourster, a Talbot Lago, a couple of Bentley 8-litres and a Wolsely Hornet. Then he stopped counting and looked at the people milling around them. The men were in suits and the women were in dresses, and everyone wore _hats_. His eyes scanned over the billboards too - Coca-Cola, Planters Peanuts, Camel cigarettes. The US Flag was still everywhere, but it had only 48 stars.

And none of it was real. He _knew_ it wasn’t real. But the knowledge didn’t stop the spread of joy, of warmth, of _familiarity_ across his chest.

 _Go find Bucky_ , he reminded himself.

Steve forced himself away from the window, towards the old wooden closet next to the bed. Waiting for him inside was a sea of blue and grey, and he thumbed through his choices.

He had forgotten how high their slacks used to be, and how wide they were, and goddamn, how he hated that pleat down the centre. He quickly picked a dark grey plaid, found the matching jacket, and a white button down shirt. Steve also pulled out the first tie he saw, grey as well, and a Detroit Hat in the same colour.

When he surveyed the finished ensemble in the mirror, he decided that it was neither terrible nor elegant. _Never mind_ , he told himself. Average was always his thing anyway, and he gave himself points for consistency.

He grabbed the wallet and key on the table, and spent a good minute looking for a cellphone before realizing that he wouldn’t find one.

Steve then left the room and made his way down the wooden stairs to the lobby. At reception was an old man with a thundering moustache and a suit that had clearly not fit him for several years. The old man looked up when he heard Steve’s footfalls, and he smiled kindly.

“Mr Rogers. Good morning, sir.”

Dr Ka’La had explained that the simulations were capable of basic to mid-level conversation. He actively reminded himself of that fact, because the gentleman seemed as real as any flesh and blood he had ever seen.

“I - uh - good morning. Sir.”

“I trust that you slept well?”

“I did. Thank you.”

“Excellent. Perhaps I can assist you with something else?”

“No. No, everything’s great. Thank you.”

“Very good, sir. Enjoy your morning. It’s a beautiful day out there.”

Steve tipped his hat and stepped outside. He turned back to look at the sign above the door - The St George Hotel - and then he looked to the street. His eyes began scanning through the crowds, wondering where to go and how the hell he would find Bucky.

Except - it seemed that he wouldn’t have to.

“Steve?” Said someone. The voice came from his left.

Steve turned, and saw Bucky sitting on a bench near the roadside. Bucky, in a suit and a hat. Bucky, with short hair like he used to have. The metal arm was still there, but he seemed younger somehow, like the last 80 years hadn’t happened, and he looked as overwhelmed by where they were as Steve felt.

Steve walked over to him and hovered for a moment, wondering what to do. Then he remembered that no one else real was around, and pulled Bucky into a deep embrace. They hold onto each other tightly, and Steve felt the tension drain from both their bodies.

Bucky let go of him first, and then started walking to their left. Steve followed, though he had no idea where they were going.

“Well, shit.” Bucky said, after a long silence. “It worked.”

“How long have you been here?” Asked Steve.

“Half an hour, maybe?” Said Bucky. “I don’t know. How long do we have?”

“One and a half hours, I think.” Steve replied. “ I’m guessing that they sent us both in at the same time.”

“I can’t believe we’re in Coney Island.” Bucky remarked. “It looks exactly the same.”

The penny dropped for Steve. “Holy shit. _That’s_ where we are. I only told Dr Ka’La to send us to 1930s New York. She overperformed.”

Bucky looked up at the tops of the buildings surrounding them as they walked. “This is Witchcraft. Outright sorcery.”

They fell into a brief silence for a while, each taking in his surroundings.

Steve eventually broke it, and asked, “What was the last thing you remember, Buck?”

“Going under. You moping at me behind the glass. How are you doing, anyway?”

“Better.” Steve said. “I got the others out of the Raft. Sam’s with me now. We’re planning our next move, I guess.”

“And Dr Ka’La?” Asked Bucky. “Did she say anything about my progress?”

“No. Might be early days though.” Steve said. “Where are you taking us?”

“Nowhere. I just want to walk. I feel like we’re going to bump into someone we know any second, y’know? Like Becca’s going to come ambling around the corner and ask me to go win her a toy bear.”

They had made several turns by now, and Steve found himself marvelling at how many kids used to roam the streets. There were swarms of them. Down the road from them, he saw two teams of kids playing Johnny-on-the-Pony, and nearby there was a group playing stickball. Between them, kids were dotted around playing hopscotch, reading on the front steps of houses, being kids out in public.

It might have been a scene, but it felt alive. _He_ felt alive.

“Would it be a bad thing, if we ran into someone?” Steve said. “I kind of wish we would. It’s nice being somewhere vaguely familiar.”

“The fact that it isn’t real doesn’t bother you, then?”

“It bothers me a whole sight less than the real world.” Steve said. “Are _you_ bothered?”

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t wrapped my head around this enough to tell you. Wait ---” he said, and stopped. He narrowed his eyes on something in the distance, and then he started walking more quickly.

Steve reflexively fell into step behind him. He took a right turn, and then eventually a left, and then ---

“I knew it.” Bucky declared, victorious.

“No way.” Steve breathed. “Feltman’s. _Fuck_.”

Somehow, the complex seemed bigger than he remembered it, even from a distance. The density of people around the building was greater than anywhere else they had seen so far, and Bucky pulled Steve’s elbow to get him to start walking again.

Steve cast his eyes over the building and tried to remember where everything was - the restaurant, the carousels, the dance hall, the movie theatre.

“You think the Ziz is still here?” Bucky said.

“We’re not getting on a rollercoaster.”

“It’s a fake rollercoaster, Steve. It doesn’t count. And you don’t have asthma anymore.”

“Buck, no.” Steve said. A lifetime ago, they had talked through infinite iterations of this same conversation.

“Yes. C'mon. I’ll buy you a hot dog to make up for it.”

Steve sighed and allowed himself to be led, as he always had.

Bucky cut his way through the crowd - “Relax, Steve. They’re not _real_ ” - and purchased two hot dogs. He handed one to Steve and dug into his own without a second thought.

Steve stared at the hot dog in his hand, and did not immediately take a bit. “There’s no way this is going to be as good as the real thing.”

Through a full mouth, Bucky said, “When was the last time you had one from here?

“Thirty three? Or maybe it was thirty four.”

“Then you can’t possibly remember what it tastes like. Shut up and eat. It’s good. I promise.”

Bucky had inhaled almost half of his immediately. There was a smear of mustard on his upper lip. The damn thing might as well have had a Michelin star, for the smile that was now on his face.

Steve committed that image to heart for when he got back. Then he took a deep bite, and it tasted exactly like it used to, like _heaven_ , and Steve conceded with immense reluctance that Bucky was right.

* * *

Steve eventually came to, more than an hour later, back in Wakanda.

“Captain?”

Steve tried to respond, but the words died in his throat. He was tired.

“Captain Rogers?”

He groaned, and tried opening his eyes slowly. The room had been dimmed. He could make out the vague outline of Dr Ka’La to his left.

“How are you feeling, Captain?”

Steve didn’t answer immediately, and shut his eyes again. He tried to preserve the events of the last few hours in his mind’s eye. His heart still felt light - he could smell the saltwater of the sea - and maybe if he held off opening his eyes - maybe he could hold onto it, just for a few seconds longer …

“Captain?” Dr Ka’La repeated. “Are you alright.”

“ ‘m fine.”

In reality, this was the best he had felt in a year and a half.

“Good. It may take you some time to readjust.”

“Don’t know if I want to.” Steve said. They had found The Ziz and Bucky had coaxed him onto it. Then he had made Steve get on The Wonder Wheel, and bought them ice cream, and made them ride the Loop-o-plane, and it turned out that you could feel real nausea in the SIRE.

“Quite a standard response. I am sure you now understand why.”

Finally, he opened his eyes back to reality - or one of them, at least. What he had returned from was too vivid to dismiss. He turned his head to look at Dr Ka’La, and she looked pleased with how things had progressed. She nodded towards something on the bedside table, and Steve noticed a small glass of orange juice and a plate of biscuits.

“Eat.” She said.

“I just did.” He replied.

“No, Captain. You didn’t.”

* * *

Waking up in the following week’s session was easier. He knew what to expect from SIRE now, and this time, he and Bucky would have six whole hours together.

He had asked Dr Ka’La to change their location too. He figured that they might eventually return to 1930s New York, but he had a different decade and city in mind for today. He wasn’t sure what Bucky would make of it, and he had mulled over other options for the last few nights. In the end though, he kept coming back to his original idea. Steve accepted that if Bucky asked him why, he would simply have to be honest.

This time, he woke up in a house, in a bedroom, in a bed. He sensed two things immediately - it was freezing, and it was also pitch black.

Steve reached over to his left and felt around for a bedside table. He found one, as well as a lamp upon it, and it took him a good minute of rummaging before he found the switch. Light flooded the room, bringing it into view.

A lot of furniture was cramped into a very small space. On one side of the bed was the table, and on the other was a chair, and there was almost no room between either of those things and the wall. At the foot of the bed was a large stand-alone closet, and he doubted there was enough space for him to walk between the two of them.

Steve rubbed his face to try and wake himself up. He spied a radio in a corner of the room next to the closet and went to flick it on, hopeful that the sound might do more to wake him. The melody of “Tangerine”, by Jimmy Dorsey and His Orchestra, filled the room, and Steve found himself smiling as he opened the closet. Tangerine was one of Morita’s favourite songs. Bucky hated it with a vengeance. He found himself a button-down shirt and a red pullover, and wore them over grey grey trousers.

And this time, he didn’t dawdle. He was out the bedroom door as soon as he had pulled enough clothes over his head to be decent. The rest of the house was equally as charming and cramped, and every wall was smothered in dark, floral wallpaper, but he didn’t stop to admire. He went outside and tried to find Bucky in the cool winter of London, in 1948.

The street outside was residential, with terraced houses that looked like they had been copied and pasted down both sides of the street. Each one was made of dark brown brick, with white panelling around the windows, and all were capped with the same four-flued chimney. Some of them had cars outside, but most didn’t. Most of the lights were off, too.

But the lights were on in the house directly across the street, very briefly. Steve thought he saw a figure in the front window, peeking out from behind the curtains, but they disappeared and the lights switched off after them.

Only then, the front door opened, and out came Bucky, and Steve said a prayer of thanks for Dr Ka’La and her team and the entire nation of Wakanda.

He crossed the street and realized that Bucky had bundled himself in a coat, two scarves, and gloves. He looked like an animated bundle of knitting.

“Where the fuck did you bring me, Rogers.” Bucky said, though he seemed as genuinely interested in the answer as he was genuinely annoyed.

“London. 1948.”

“Great. Next time, ask for the summer months.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Where are we going?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to be here. I didn’t really think much past that.”

“Right. Well. Start walking. I’m going to contract simulated frostbite in a second.”

Steve had no idea where they were in London, nor did he have a map, nor any idea of how to get one. For lack of any better ideas, he started walking right and hoped that they would find where the people were.

Bucky asked for updates about the real world, though it was very clear that he did not miss it. Steve filled him in on the contact he had made with Tony, on everyone’s adjustment to life in Wakanda, on the breakdown in international consensus on the Sokovia Accords. Bucky listened intently but didn’t ask any questions, so Steve kept talking to fill in the silence. He took it as a good sign that Bucky wanted to know what was going on. It meant that he wanted to come back.

Half an hour later, while Steve was still talking, Bucky held out an arm to stop him in his tracks.

“There.” Bucky said. “Up ahead.”

Steve looked, and saw three young people - two guys and a girl, walking ahead arm in arm. Steve couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the sound of their laughter carried back all the way to them.

Steve looked to Bucky, confused. “What about them?”

“Let’s follow them.” Bucky said.

“They might be heading home.” Steve pointed out.

“Or,” Bucky sad, “They might be heading to the best bar in town.”

Steve held up his hands in defeat, and the two of them quickened their pace to catch up with the group. They followed them down three long streets, and then an alleyway, and then down another main street. _They must be locals_ , Steve thought to himself. Then he remembered that they weren’t real.

Eventually, they turned into a lane with a bricked wall at its end. The three took a left near the wall, down a set of stairs. They opened a door and suddenly, light and music replaced the silent darkness - or at least it did, until the door closed again.

“Bingo.” Said Bucky. “I knew it.”

Steve gave him a withering side-look. “That was a fluke and a half, and you know it.”

Bucky grinned, and Steve knew he’d continue to take credit it for it till the end of the night. He figured that he had endured worse, and followed Bucky down the stairs.

The bar was called The Bresolin, and it was brimming with people, and most importantly, it was _warm_. Bucky immediately shed his coat, gloves, hat and scarves on a table near the door. Then he grabbed Steve by the elbow, and the two of them made their way inside.

The bar took up an entire wall of the establishment. It was staffed by two men and two women who seemed to be enjoying their night as much as any of their patrons. Union Jack bunting lined the roof in orderly rows, and the tight space was furnished with entirely mismatched tables, chairs, stools, and lamps. Loud big band music was in the air, and two dozen or so people had created a makeshift dance floor in the middle of the room. There was no room for a dance floor, but it seemed to Steve that they had simply claimed the space for themselves.

Around them, groups of people were gathered around their drinks in small clusters. The atmosphere was one of infectious mirth.

Bucky turned back to Steve and whispered in his ear, “I knew it.”

“Shut up. Go get the drinks. I’ll get the table.”

“You think we could get drunk here?”

Steve grinned. “We at least have to try, right? Go. See you soon.”

But, as Bucky walked off, Steve noticed something unusual and grabbed Bucky by the hand. By the left hand.

It was made of flesh. Steve traced his fingers over Bucky's knuckle, his palm, and felt only softness and warmth.

“ _How._ ” Steve said. It was about all he could manage.

Bucky shrugged, looking down at it as well. “I don’t know," he said. “Last time, I wondered whether I could wake up with a real arm, and this time I did.”

“Does it feel real?”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. I spent a solid ten minutes pinching it. It bruises, too.”

Steve let go of him, and Bucky left for the bar with a wink. Steve turned his attention back to finding a table, shaking slightly.

He elbowed his way through the crowds of people standing, and the dancers, and found a single round table with three chairs around it. He sat down to wait for Bucky and tried to enjoy the atmosphere. He hadn’t lived to see 1948, but it was close enough to the bars he had seen in the wartime. In those days, the joy and laughter were moments of fleeting happiness in the midst of rubble. Now, the joy seemed like a permanent state of affairs.

Bucky eventually returned with two sidecar cocktails, and he placed them on the table. Steve tried not to stare at his arm. They clinked their glasses together, toasted Dr Ka’La, and drank to each other’s good health.

“So.” Bucky said, leaning close so Steve could hear him over the noise of the room. “Why did you bring us here.”

“I’m daydreaming.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re in 1948. In another lifetime, we could have lived to see this in the flesh. I guess I wanted to know what life might have looked like, if we survived the war.”

Bucky looked thoughtful. “So. You want to pretend that none of anything happened, to either of us.”

“Something like that. For a few hours, anyway. Don’t you think we’ve earned it?”

“Maybe _you_ have.”

“ _Bucky_.”

“I’m kidding. Calm down.” He took another swig of his drink and looked around at the crowd around them, the guys and the girls and the suits and the bright red lipstick. “God, I half expect Peggy Carter to waltz in here and whisk you away from me.”

“Are you worried she might?” Steve teased.

“No. I wouldn’t mind seeing her, actually. We understood each other, her and I,” said Bucky, and he held up a hand to stop the smart-aleck remark that Steve was about to make. “Not just because we had you in common, asshole.”

“I wish she could have lived long enough to see this.”

“She did, didn’t she?”

“No - not 1948. _This_. SIRE. She was sharp, in her last days, but her body wasn’t keeping up with her mind. She could have lived all of this.”

“I’m sorry she didn’t.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Bucky placed a hand over Steve’s and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Steve met his eyes gratefully. It was a lifetime later, but he figured he was lucky to have even one of them, even if it was only for once a week. They sat in silence for a while, Bucky’s hand still on his own. Neither of them felt the need to say anything.

It took a change of music to draw them out of their own minds. A new song began and Bucky’s face changed.

He seemed to recognise it immediately, even though only four seconds of piano had played out over the bar.

“Steve.” He said, with remarkable urgency. “ _Steve._ They’re playing Besame Mucho.”

“The Glen Gray one?”

“No, idiot. Jimmy Dorsey. Oh, god.” He closed his eyes as the song began properly. He looked like he had bumped into an old friend.

Steve watched him with amusement - he had forgotten Bucky’s occasional tendency to become over-involved with the songs he liked. Bucky debated the merits of a piece with the same passion and gravity that people debated law. Once, it had turned to fists.

“Well, don’t waste the song” Steve said. “Go find a girl. Go dance.”

Bucky opened his eyes. “Or --- you could dance with me.”

“Me.” Said Steve.

“No, your aunt Mildred,” replied Bucky. “Yes, you.”

Steve gestured to the crowd. “With all these people around?”

“They’re not real, Rogers. We’re the only flesh and blood in this room. No one’s going to pick a fight with us.”

Before Steve could protest, Bucky pushed his drink aside and grabbed him by the hand, hoisting him up to the dancefloor. Bucky shouldered his way through the dense crowd and then, when he had found a spot that he liked, pulled Steve into him. He placed his other hand at the small of Steve’s back, and held him close. He began swaying them from side to side.

Steve didn’t breathe for a moment. He couldn’t divide his attention between the sudden proximity to Bucky, and his fear of how the simulation would react to two men slow-dancing in public in what was effectively 1948.

Only - Bucky was right. No one paid them a jot of attention. They might as well have not been in the room, for all anyone seemed to care. Steve’s heart hammered with disbelief.

“Can you believe this?” Steve said.

“Be quiet and let me enjoy the song.” Bucky replied. He pulled Steve closer and drew their foreheads together, and they swayed gently from left to right. Steve had never been a good dancer, and true to form, he stepped on Bucky’s toes twice. Luckily, Bucky was too busy enjoying himself to notice or react.

Only when the song ended did Bucky open his eyes once again. Steve tried to think of the last time their bodies had been this close, other than in the context of a fight. Hand on heart, he couldn’t remember. Bucky’s eyes seemed bluer than he remembered, the dimple of his chin more pronounced, his lips longer and fuller.

Then he realized he was staring, and blushed, and closed his eyes.

“Sorry.” He said.

“For what? No one’s looking. And I sure as hell don’t mind.”

Steve pulled his head away for a moment to take another scan of the room. Something in him was waiting for quiet stares or embarrassed avoidance. He had seen it before, though never directed at him and Bucky because they had always been overcautious. People watched and whispered behind hands and occasionally, the owner of the establishment would get involved, either with minimal fuss or far too much of it.

“They programmed out the bigotry.” Steve marvelled quietly. “At least in this particular bar.”

“Good.” Said Bucky. “Then we can stay here.”

* * *

In the third session, Steve woke up to the sound of waves crashing along the shoreline. He was smiling before he opened his eyes.

He rolled over and stretched, and scratched his hair, and drew himself out of bed. It was daylight, but he had no idea where they were. Dr Ka’La had asked him to set a location, and he had asked her to choose somewhere she thought they would like. By now, they had completed two sessions, and Bucky seemed to enjoy the element of surprise in not knowing where he would wake up. Steve thought it might be kind of nice to try the same.

As his eyes adjusted, he drew a number of conclusions. First, it was daylight. Second, it was summer. Third, there was a Macbook on the window seat, so they were definitely in the 21st Century. This pleased Steve. He had grown tired of having to dress up suitably for a different era. He made his way to the closet, pulled out a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt, and left his room barefoot.

A strong smell of coffee met him in the corridor, but when he called out for Bucky, no one responded. Steve made his way down the stairs, called out Bucky’s name again, and made his way outside.

The exterior of the house was lined with a verandah, and Bucky was sitting on the steps leading down to the beach. A mug of coffee and an empty plate were next to him.

He turned around at the sound of the door, and stood up when he saw Steve.

“This,” he declared, nodding out at the ocean, “was an excellent idea.”

“Thank the good Doctor. She chose it.”

“Maybe you should let her make all the decisions from now on.”

Steve walked down the verandah and onto the white sand immediately at its base, in order to have a better look around. There was endless beach to his left, and endless beach to his right, and all of it was bordered by towering dunes. He couldn’t see any other buildings or people, or any living thing beyond a swarm of seagulls nearby.

“Where do you think we are?” Steve asked.

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Bucky responded, walking over to join him. “But there’s electric heating and a microwave, so I figure we’ll survive six hours. No alcohol, though. That’s a shame.”

Steve smiled. The last time, in 1948, after plying themselves and each other with alcohol, they realized that they could get drunk in the simulation. Both of them seized the opportunity with reckless abandon. By the time they were done, their table was entirely hidden under the various bottles and glasses they had emptied.

They ended the night sitting on the floor, balance lost and voices hoarse. They leaned back against the bar, Bucky’s head on Steve’s shoulder, and they made up backstories for the simulated people around them. Each one was more ridiculous than the next.

“No alcohol? That’s a shame.” Steve said. “What are we gonna do instead, then?”

Bucky didn’t immediately say anything.

Steve turned his attention away from the horizon and back to Bucky. Bucky was already watching him, in a very deliberate way. He had seen that same look before, a handful of times.  

There was one occasion, when they were 12, and Bucky had pulled Steve aside before school to show him a $5 bill that he had found on the street. He pulled the paper taut between his hands, and ignored Steve’s suggestion to hand in to the police. _No_ , Bucky had told him. _We’re going to use this. For our ma’s and for us_. They ended up buying a pound of coconut macaroons for 27 cents and eating themselves sick with it. Then they split the change between them and used it whenever their households were running low.

Then there was another time, when they were 17 and doing homework in Steve’s room. Bucky had lost interest in the algebra questions they had been set. When Steve realized, he looked up from his own book just in time to Bucky leaning forward to kiss him.

And there was a third time too, during the war. Bucky had found a quiet room in the barracks, and he had a few ideas for how he and Steve might use it.

It was a look of intention. It meant that Bucky knew what he wanted to do, and that he was probably going to do it.

He took a few steps closer to Steve, but stopped about a foot away. His hands were in the pocket of old jeans, in a blue so faded that it could have been gray. The knees were ripped, and Bucky’s hair was flying in the wind.

“Are you about to kiss me?” Steve asked calmly, feeling everything but. He wondered if Bucky could hear the sledgehammer thud of his heart over the waves.

“I might.”

“You should have kissed me last time. In the bar.” Steve told him.

“Let me make it up to you now.” Bucky said.

There were things that Steve hadn’t thought about seriously in a lifetime, let alone done since 1944. But they had six hours ahead of them, and the same idea about how to fill them. He suddenly felt sick with wanting.

Bucky closed the step between then and brought his lips to the edge of Steve’s mouth. He kissed the corner chastely once, and then twice, and then Steve let out a frustrated sound, somewhere between a sigh and moan. Steve tilted his face just enough so that the third kiss landed properly, on his lips, where it belonged, where Bucky belonged.

Bucky took the invitation and pulled Steve closer. Steve melted into him like he was butter. They kissed each other with hunger, ran palms coarsely against shirts, under them, around and over hips, down backs, retracing familiar old routes and carving out new ones.

“Inside.” Bucky said roughly. “C’mon.”

Steve followed him blindly, his thoughts stuck in a disbelieving loop of _this is happening_ , _this is really happening_. It was cut short only once they were inside, after he had slammed the door closed behind them, and in turn been slammed against it by Bucky. Bucky kissed him and rutted against him like they were 19 and doing this for the first time, all over again.

They didn’t last long at the door, and they never made it to the bed. Hell, their clothes didn’t even last past the couch. They collapsed onto it together, Bucky over Steve, the full weight of him pinning Steve down. Bucky was needy, so needy, and god, that was just how Steve liked it. They touched each other with the impatience of two people who wanted everything and didn’t know where to start.

Bucky held Steve, and then he held him down and fucked him, and he drew his name from between Steve’s lips as a plea and a gasp and a curse.

Steve had felt neither joy nor pleasure for a while, but here they were, both of them, combined in a mixture heady enough to take down a god. They were right where they had always been for him, in Bucky’s arms.

When they collapsed together, eventually, they were too spent to talk. Bucky nestled himself into Steve, head against his shoulder and palm over his heart. Steve stroked his hair, prayed the most sincere Hail Mary he had offered to the Lord in his 90-something years of life, and fell asleep holding onto him. 

* * *

In the next week's session, the following Tuesday, Steve woke up at the beach house again. He had asked Dr Ka’La to send them there once more, and she had agreed to do so without asking why.

The house was deathly silent again, exactly as it had been the previous time. It was a bright, sunny day, and light tumbled into the room through the gauze curtains. It felt delicious against his skin, and he basked in it for a few minutes.

The sound of the sea outside was fainter today - perhaps it was low tide. The odd seagull cried out here and there as well, but there was no activity coming from the house. Steve wondered whether Bucky would be open to a bit of exploration that morning. A part of him wanted to see what lay on the other side of the dunes, and whether their were simulated people nearby at all.

Another part of him wanted to stay home again, all day. The thought brought him enough of a rush to draw him out of bed.

He got dressed, splashed water on his face in the bathroom, and went downstairs. He called out for Bucky and heard nothing back, He checked every room in the house, and figured that maybe Bucky hadn’t arrived yet.

To pass the time, Steve went into the kitchen and opened the fridge for a look. He found bread and vegetables and salmon, and for lack of anything better to do, he made himself a sandwich. A carton of chocolate milk in the fridge door caught his eye as well. He took it along with his sandwich, and went outside onto the verandah.

Steve took a bite, and then another, and enjoyed the silence while it lasted.

Then, without warning, he felt the slam of metal across the back of his head. His skull erupted with immediate and excruciating pain.

The food fell from his hand and he was knocked to the side, falling with his face against the wood. His stomach sank to his feet. Something was very wrong.

Unable to see or think straight because of the pain, Steve didn’t fight back. A hand grabbed him roughly by the scruff of his collar, dragging him onto the hard wood and slamming his head down against it. Steve didn’t do a thing to resist it. He couldn’t. He could barely even open his eyes.

He felt pressure against his throat and realized that it was a boot. It pressed down just enough to make its presence known, and to hint at the damage it could yet do.

Steve willed himself to see what was happening. Even after he opened his eyes, though, his vision did not immediately focus. He closed his eyes and opened them again, and again, and again. Eventually, the image began to sharpen, and Steve’s heart broke as he realized it was Bucky, dressed in all black. His left arm was silver again. There was no recognition in his eyes.

“Buck.” Steve gasped, struggling for air.

“Shut up.” He replied.

“Buck -- I - “

The boot came down more firmly on his throat, pressing directly against his adam’s apple. Steve couldn’t swallow. He could barely breath.

“I’m not your Bucky.” He growled. “Tell me where we are.”

“A -- sim -- ulation.”

“What the fuck does that mean.”

Steve didn’t respond immediately. He would need to weigh his next words carefully. He felt his sense of control slip away through his fingers. With it slipped away the fleeting happiness he had felt over the last month.

“Monitoring -- your -- his -- health.” Steve managed, eventually, with immense difficulty. He could tell that the words meant nothing to the man above him. “What -- are -- you -- going -- to -- do.”

“Kill you.”

Steve whimpered. There was no fight in him.

The boot came off Steve’s throat and kicked hard against the side of his head. He felt his jaw break, tasted the flood of blood rushing into his mouth. He registered a weight on his stomach as the Winter Soldier straddled his middle, and then the punches started falling. One, two, three, to his cheek, four, to his broken jaw, five, to his nose.

The last thing Steve saw before he blacked out was the sunshine.

* * *

Steve woke up in Wakanda suddenly and violently. The room was shrill, with each of the half dozen machines that were monitoring him emitting its own distinct warning beeps. Steve couldn’t take any of it. He was in agony, and he was heartbroken, and everything hurt.

Dr Ka’La’s calm voice broke through the madness.

“Captain. _Captain_. Stay with me.”

“I.” He managed, barely. “Can’t.”

“You are unharmed. Stay with my voice. Give yourself a moment.”

Steve wanted to move but he couldn't. He hadn’t finished even an hour of the scheduled six, but his body lay heavy and immobile on the bed. As though sensing his exhaustion, Dr Ka’La placed her palm reassuringly on his forearm. It helped a little, but he could still feel the Soldier’s weight over the middle of him, and the shadows of fists on his face.

She squeezed his arm tightly, as though she was telling him _I’m here_. The pressure delivered him further away from wherever he had been, and brought him closer to the room. Steve swallowed, and tried to speak.

“It was. Wrong.” He managed.

Dr Ka’La stayed right next to him, though she let go of his arm. Gradually, the frantic beeping of the monitors in the room slowed down. He felt equilibrium return to his body too - the pounding in his head receded, and he gathered enough energy to push the blanket covering him down a little. When he opened his eyes, it was to broad daylight.

“Can I -- sit up?” He asked.

“No. Conserve your energy. But I can tilt the bed up for you.”

He heard a number of firm taps on the tablet, and the bed started moving up. Dr Ka’La came into view. She was in a seat next to his bed.

“Are you alright?” She asked.

“I think so.” He said, adjusting his seating position.. “How did you know? To get me out?”

“Your vitals became erratic. Every monitor that could flash red, flashed red. It was very evident that something was wrong.” Then, she took a pause, and regarded Steve carefully. She let the silence hang in the air for a few moments. “You are of course able to record the incident in the log as normal. However, if you would prefer, you are also welcome to tell me in person.”

Steve exhaled, and matched her silence.

“Did something happen with Sergeant Barnes?” She asked gently.

“Wasn’t him.” Steve replied. Enough breath had returned to allow him to string two words together. “It was the other guy.”

“The Winter Soldier?”

“The same.”

“What did he do?

“He arrived late. I was waiting for Bucky. Then he came at me from behind. I don’t even know what he used to hit my head.”

He stopped and reached for the back of his scalp. It felt completely smooth under his hair, and there was no bruising. Then he pulled his hand back and looked down at his fingers, expecting them to be bloodied. For all the pain he had felt, it genuinely surprised him that they weren’t.

“And then?” Dr Ka’La asked.

“Whatever the hell it was, it worked. He threw me off balance, pinned me down by his boot. On the throat. Then he kicked my head. He said he wanted to kill me.”

“Well.” She said, eyes momentarily darting back to the monitors. “Your body certainly reacted as though he might.”

* * *

The following week, Steve returned to the beach house. Dr Ka’la seemed hesitant to send him back there - she asked him whether he was not troubled by the bad memories. He told her that he and Bucky had made some good memories in there too. He also told her that the house was small, and that he was familiar with it. If the Winter Solider was waiting for him again, Steve could at least fall back on his knowledge of the terrain. It was his single advantage. He pointed out that if she sent them somewhere new, he would lose it.

She asked him to consider taking a break from SIRE, if just for that week. He politely but firmly declined, and came awake in the beach house bed a short time later.

He immediately went downstairs and positioned himself in a corner of the living area. The two walls coming off the corner had no windows near where he sat, and the dining table was to his left. He figured that he could flip that and use it as a weapon, if he had to.

The corner also gave him the best view of the interior of the house. The ground floor was open plan and he had an uninterrupted view of the kitchen, as well as of the doors to the bathroom and laundry. He could see the stairs coming down from the top floor as well, so if Bucky - _The Winter Soldier_ , he reminded himself - was hiding there, he would see him coming too.

Steve had liked this place. He liked the idea of somewhere isolated, with wicker furniture and blue and white striped fabrics. The house was tidy, too. He and Bucky had left it in something of a state after the first time, but it seemed to have rearranged itself, or reset. He wondered if the dried blood on the verandah outside was gone as well.

An hour passed, and no one showed up. Not the Winter Soldier. Not Bucky. Not even the goddamned seagulls outside. After two hours, he made himself a cup of coffee and returned to his seat. After three, he went rummaging around for a pencil and paper and began sketching the room.

He wasn’t sure what this absence meant. He didn’t know whether it was better or worse than seeing The Winter Solder. Four hours passed, then five, then six.

Steve eventually felt himself becoming sleepy, signalling the end of the session. He closed his eyes and waited to wake up in the medical suite, and hoped that his heart would feel less heavy in the real world.

It didn’t.

* * *

The next session, he asked to go somewhere different. Dr Ka’La asked a gentle question about what had prompted him to change his mind. He told her that six hours on his own in the enclosed space of the house was maddening. He also figured that although the violence felt real in the midst of each session, it was as simulated as anything else around them. Whether he had the fake shit beaten out of him in one place or another didn’t matter. He would still wake up unharmed.

Steve asked Dr Ka’La to send him to Rome, and she obliged.

He woke up in a hotel room with turquoise blue walls and mustard yellow bedding, and a coffee machine in the corner told him it was the modern day. He got dressed as quickly as he could and left the room, not pausing to take in the opulence of the hotel in which he had woken up. He had more pressing matters on his limited time.

Steve emerged into the bustle of a busy day in Rome, near the top of the Spanish Steps. The weather was crisp and heavy clouds hung low in the sky. He hadn’t dressed enough for the chill and he shivered a bit, but he shook it off and made his way down the Steps.

He found himself an unattended spot at the banister, near the bottom left and next to the Keats-Shelley Memorial House. Then he began scanning the crowd. No one seemed to take notice of him. They manoeuvred him around like they were water, and he was a rock in their stream.

The detail of the simulation had never overwhelmed him quite like it did in that moment. He had been to Rome before in reality, and he had experienced the density of the crowds and the infinite permutations of people that walked through it every day. Now, he found himself standing in the midst of a faithful reconstruction of its lively ambience. Steve saw families and children, and lovers, and young people sitting alone with their sketchbooks. Every second person had a camera out, as they did in real life, and he heard more languages around than he could catalogue.

In midst of that stable chaos, he suddenly heard his name.

“Steve?”

At first, he wasn’t sure where it had come from. He looked to his left, down in the direction of the Fontana, but then he felt a hand on his right shoulder.

He turned and looked, and against Steve’s better judgment, hope bloomed in his chest. He should have been cautious, but a single look confirmed that it was undeniably Bucky, in black jeans and white t-shirt and leather jacket and a smile. He seemed happy to see Steve, and without thinking, he leaned forward to greet him with a kiss.

Only -- Steve stood frozen, and Bucky picked up on it immediately. He pulled away, taken aback, and frowned.

“What’s the matter?”

Steve weighed up his words carefully.

“Tell me the last thing you remember.”

“The beach. The house.” Bucky said. “Fucking all afternoon. What’s wrong?”

“You don’t remember anything else?” Steve asked.

Bucky took the hint. There was something else to remember. His shoulders tensed and his jaw set, but his eyes looked worried. Scared, even.

“Is this why we’re not at the beach house anymore?” He asked.

Steve nodded. Bucky closed his eyes and leaned against the banister, breathing deeply.

“Shit,” he said softly, more to himself. “Shit.”

“It’s okay. Nothing permanent happened.”

Bucky’s head snapped in Steve’s direction.

“What the fuck does that even mean, Steve? Tell me what I did.” He said harshly.

So Steve did. He told him about the second trip to the beach house and the unexpected house guest. He tried to spare Bucky the details of the violence but Bucky forced them out of him - every word, every punch, every kick. He said he needed to know what he had done, and dismissed any kind of reassurance to the effect of it not being his fault.

Steve explained the flow-on effect to his vitals and how Dr Ka’La had pulled him out. Then he told Bucky about the third trip, and the silence. When he was done, he pleaded with Bucky not to apologize, but Bucky listened to him with a face like stone.

Eventually, he spoke.

“Did Dr Ka’La say anything about what that means? For my recovery? My progress?”

“No. I told her what had happened but she didn’t explain what it meant, or why it happened. I don’t think it was enough for her to draw any sort of conclusion.”

“Well.” Bucky said. “Fuck.”

“Please forget it. You’re here now. That’s all I care about. That’s all the matters.”

“Steve.” Bucky said flatly. “I beat the shit out of you. Again.”

Steve sighed in frustration and took a step closer to him. He cupped Bucky’s face in his hands and brought him close - close enough to speak quietly, even in the midst of the life around them. Bucky looked at him like he would recoil at the touch, if he could. Like he didn’t deserve it. Steve recognized the edge of an emotional chasm when he saw one, and he intended to pull Bucky away from it.

“You’re here.” He repeated softly. “You’re here now, and with me. I haven’t seen you in two weeks and I’ve missed you. We have five and a half hours left. I don’t want to waste them. Stay with me. Please.”

Bucky closed his eyes. “I don’t want you to put up with this.”

“That’s not your call.” Steve said. He pressed his forehead to Bucky’s. “It’s mine. And I’ve made it.”

“What do we do now?” Bucky asked, deflated, defeated.

“We’re going to see Fake Rome. Come on.” Steve said. He let go of Bucky’s face and reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. He began walking down the steps so that Bucky had no option but to follow.

“What exactly does one do in Fake Rome?” Bucky said.

“Eat fake gelato. Walk along the fake Tiber. Visit the fake Sistine Chapel at the fake Vatican.”

Bucky looked at him like he was insane. After a long pause, he seemed to concede defeat.

“Well. If you’re sure.” He said.

“I am.” Steve replied.

He led Bucky left from the Spanish Steps, down towards Via Borgognona, past all the high-end shops with their big windows and expensive wares. They took a left onto Via del Corso, a right onto Piazza di San Lorenzo, and then another right.

They walked in silence for a long time as Steve tried to remember the way to the Piazza Campo de’ Fiori. The open market there had been one of his favourite things in Rome, and he had visited it daily. Now he wanted Bucky to see it. Maybe Steve couldn’t distract him from his mood, but if Bucky was even a shadow of his former self, an abundance of food might work.

After they had been walking a while, Bucky suddenly remarked, “You’ve been here before.”

“Yeah. About a year ago.”

“For work?”

“No. They forced me to take a week off. Tony kicked me out of Stark Tower and told the building not to let me in. So I came to Rome.”

It had been a good week. He had passed it walking around every corner of the city, concealed behind sunglasses and a baseball hat. He tried to visit as many churches as he could too, sketching something from each of them - a detail of a painting or a sculpture, or the shape of the altar. He had filled an entire notebook in those seven days. He wondered where it was now, or if he would ever see it again.

“Your ma always wanted to come to mass in Rome.” Bucky recalled, as they continued down Via d’Ascanio.”Is that right?”

“Yeah, it is. I lit a candle for her in every church I went to. Attended a few masses, here and there. Not that I understood a single word of the liturgy. Spent most of them looking up at the frescos, if I’m being honest.”

“Yeah, well.” Bucky said, almost smiling. “You’ve always been a shit Catholic.”

“Preached the pot, to the kettle.” Steve retorted.

“That doesn’t count. I never had aspirations to be a good Catholic. But _you_ always did.” Bucky pointed out. And now, he was smiling properly. “Have you been to confession in the last half-century?”

“Not since 1944.” Steve grimaced. “Nor do I intend to. I’m not going to burden some poor neophyte with all my grief.”

Bucky laughed. “You’d make the poor bastard’s life.”

Steve felt himself relax at the sound of Bucky’s laugh. He had worried that he wouldn’t hear it today. But Bucky was here, and they were talking.  This was good. This was almost normal.

“Listen, pal.” He teased. “You oughta be grateful for my silence. Half my sins are yours too, and  -- ”

“ -- only the good ones.” Bucky interrupted.

“--- and besides.” Steve continued. “Since when were you responsible for the welfare of my immortal soul?”

“I figure we should try and save at least one of ours. I’m placing all my money on yours.”

“Why?” Steve scoffed. “I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, well.” Bucky said, with a pointed look at him. “You’ve never known hot to tell good odds from shit ones.”

Steve had the distinct impression that they weren’t talking about childhood gambling anymore. Rather than replying, he pulled Bucky into the Piazza, at which they had arrived. He made a beeline for the confectionery stalls and prayed to God that Bucky still had a sweet tooth.

For once, God answered immediately.

“Jesus Christ.” Bucky said, voice laden with wonder. “Would you look at all that fucking biscotti.”

* * *

When Steve came to in the medical suite, several hours later, he felt happier than he had been in weeks. Even Dr Ka’La seemed relieved that Bucky had returned, and that all had gone well. She still had no answers for Steve, in terms of who would turn up to each session, and why. But it wasn’t regress, so Steve took it as progress.

It returned a degree of order to his week as well. Tuesdays had been the highlight of his week for a while. Now he felt like he could look forward to them again.

* * *

The following week, Steve came to see Dr Ka’La half an hour earlier than scheduled. He met her at her office, rather than in the medical suite, and she called for tea for the two of them. They made small talk until it arrived, and then, when the door closed behind the attendant, Steve turned to his purpose.

“How can I help, Captain?”

“I’ve been thinking.” He said slowly. “About whether we could do this more frequently than once a week.”

She clasped her hands around her steaming mug. “I see. To what end?”

“Well, the more sessions we do, the more chances I have to observe him. It might be helpful, if you had more regular updates on how he was presenting.”

“That is very generous of you.” She said, but she fixed him with a small, knowing smile. “And what is the benefit to you?”

“I get to see him more often. Just that.”

She nodded, and then she leaned back in her chair, mug still in hand. She looked out the window for a moment, deep in thought, and then she turned her attention back to him.

“I understand, Captain. I truly do, and you have my complete sympathy.  But I am sorry. I cannot accomodate your request.”

The answer did not surprise him, but he felt something in him deflate anyway. He sighed.

“Can you at least tell me why?”

“There are two reasons. The first concerns Sergeant Barnes. As I am sure you are well aware, Sergeant Barnes signed a number of consent forms before he was returned to cryogenic stasis. Each of them was meticulously drafted. Each referred to only one SIRE session a week, and that is therefore the extent of his consent. I must respect my ethical and legal obligations towards him.”

“What if I speak to him about it in SIRE? He might agree to more than one session.”

“He very well might, but I have no way of verifying anything he tells you. This is not a reflection of your honour,” she was quick to point out. “It is a reflection of protocol."

Steve nodded. He twisted the hot mug around in his hand. “I understand.”

“My second reason,” she continued, “is concern for you. We have studied the spectrum of responses that people have to spending time in the SIRE. There is a risk involved of over-attachment to the process. People begin to retreat socially and emotionally from their real lives, merely existing between sessions. It becomes like an addiction. This is why permanent residence in the SIRE is only offered to the dying, and why their loved ones are only given a session a week, at maximum.”

Steve remembered a time from a few weeks beforehand, when even a single session a week seemed like a blessing. He tried to recall that feeling. He tried to feel grateful that they had something, imperfect and infrequent as it was, rather than nothing.

* * *

 That morning’s session, however, taught him that he couldn’t take even a single week for granted.

He had asked Dr Ka’La to send them to Paris. The Winter Soldier was waiting for him in the gardens behind Notre Dame Cathedral. He seemed ready to finish what he had started at the beach house. He even told Steve as much.

They fought for 10 minutes before Dr Ka’La seemed to figure out was going on. Steve suddenly felt himself grow limp with exhaustion, and closed his eyes with relief as he was extracted from SIRE.

* * *

The following week, Steve returned to Paris, and the Winter Soldier returned with him.

The week after that, in Marrakech, the same thing occurred.

Dr Ka’La became skilled in reading the early signs that something was wrong, and she began extracting him earlier and earlier. Armed with that extra protection, he walked into the medical suite each week preparing to fight within the hour.

It exhausted Steve. It made him sick with longing for Bucky and the few, simple times they had shared together in the SIRE. It made him rage at the universe, and at science, and at God, for every single beautiful thing that had been given to them and then snatched away.

Dr Ka’La talked to him about taking a break, if not terminating the sessions altogether. She suggested it only for his sake, she assured him. She promised it would not hinder Bucky’s treatment. Each week, he thanked her for her concern and positioned himself in the bed anyway, at the ready.

A month and a half passed. After six sessions without a sight of Bucky, Dr Ka’La put her foot down. She extracted him from a session in London, told him that he was harming himself, and declared that she could not stand by idly and watch him do it. She told him that if the next session brought more of the same, she would terminate them entirely.

Steve respected her too much to protest. Instead, he harnessed his anger, and tried to think his way out of the problem. For the next seven days, he didn’t sleep properly and barely ate, replaying as much as he could of every single encounter - both the good, and the bad. In addition to the brief logs he was keeping for Dr Ka’La, he recorded each session in a notebook for himself. He found himself returning to the entries again and again, looking for an idea.

Then, towards the end of a morning run a few days later, an idea found him.

* * *

The next week - perhaps the final week - Steve had asked Dr Ka’La to send him back to the beach house. She looked at Steve with skepticism, but granted his wish. He didn’t tell her about the other part of his plan. He wasn’t even sure that it would work. Steve resolved to tell her if it did, but if it didn’t - well. He had bigger problems.

When Dr Ka’La placed the electrode cap on his head, he closed his eyes and focussed.

A part of him still liked waking up in the beach house, which he had learned by now was in a remote corner of Scotland. Although it held terrible memories for him, the good ones it had seen were some of his best since the war. He could not fight the hope that this house made him feel.

And this time, when he woke up, his hope was strengthened because he knew immediately that his plan had worked. Or at least, the first part of it anyway.

Steve pushed the covers off himself. They felt heavier, even though he knew they were same ones. He felt himself cough. The air was no cooler or warmer than it had been the last time he was here either, but he knew he would be more sensitive to it today.

Slowly, he walked over to the mirror. For the first time in over seventy years, he saw the reflection of a small, spindly man looking back at him. There was more bone than skin to him, and even the small singlet he wore hung loosely off his body.

Steve had spent a lifetime seeing this particular reflection in the mirror, but he hadn’t seen it in a long time. Being confronted with it again shocked him. He looked like a caricature of his own memory of himself. Steve had grown so used to invincibility that he had forgotten what weakness looked like, and felt like. His breathing was more laboured and parts of his body seemed to ache for no reason. He had not missed this at all.

In this state, the Winter Soldier could destroy him with a single breath. Steve wanted to see whether he would.

He got dressed, taking care to wear more layers than normal, and left the room. Now that he was half his normal size, the entire house looked and felt out of proportion. The banisters were the height of his chest rather than his waist. Each step seemed steeper than it had before. For the first time in a long time, Steve felt grateful for the serum.

There was no one inside, but Steve saw the dark shape of a figure outside through one of the gauze curtains. He could tell immediately that it was the Winter Soldier again. Bucky wasn’t here.

Steve finished the stairs and moved to the centre of the room, where he was sure he would be seen. He felt like a target that had marked itself. His heart pounded with fear, and although adrenaline rushed through him, Steve knew that there was little he could do with it. He was shaking. He couldn’t stop shaking.

Neither of them moved for a while. Then, Steve took a few steps forward towards the window, and pulled back the curtains. Their eyes met properly through the glass, and Steve saw something unusual in the face looking back at him. There was no anger, no furrowed brow, no scowl. It took Steve several moments to put a finger on what it was

It was recognition. And it was combined with fear.

“Bucky?” He said. His voice wavered over both syllables.

Confusion washed over the Soldier’s face, immediately. He took a step back.

“No,” he said. “No.”

And then he fled.

* * *

Dr Ka’La had no cause to extract him early, so Steve passed the remaining five and a half hours inside, waiting to see if the Soldier would return. He didn’t, but Steve didn’t care. His plan had worked. He wasn’t sure why, or how, or what it meant, but the sight of how he used to be had thrown the Soldier for a loop.

When he woke up in the medical suite, Dr Ka’La looked as hopeful as he felt.

“Was it Bucky?” She asked.

He didn’t answer immediately, readjusting to the size and heaviness of his physical form. It took him a minute to pull himself up and look at her.

“No. It wasn’t.” He said. “But he didn’t beat the shit out of me today.”

“How?”

“Do you remember how a few months ago, I logged an entry about Bucky appearing in SIRE with a flesh left arm?”

“I do.”

“He couldn’t tell me how he did it - only that he wanted to, and that it happened. I guess I tried something similar today?” He said, though he wished he had something more concrete to give her. “I wanted to go in with my old body, from before the serum. And I did.”

“Why?”

“The Soldier never saw me in that form. He’s only ever seen me like this.” He gestured down his body. “I wanted to see what would happen.”

By now, Dr Ka’La had pulled out her tablet. She tapped away at it furiously, taking notes of everything he said. He wondered if she was annoyed that he had unilaterally conducted an experiment. If she was, she didn’t let on.

“And what happened?” She asked.

“He saw me through the window. I walked up to it and looked at him. I called him Bucky, and he said no. Then he ran away, and I didn’t see him again.”

“He did not recognize you, then.” She remarked.

Steve shook his head emphatically. In the five hours he had to himself, he had replayed the Winter Soldier’s expression in an endless loop. On this, he was certain.

“He recognized me.” He said. “Something about me was familiar to him.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“I didn’t get a chance - he seemed scared. Not of me, exactly. I think he was trying to work out how he knew me.” Steve said, though he knew that the evidence was only as strong as the feeling in his gut. He looked to Dr Ka’La. “Do you think this is good?”

She finished typing and sat back in the chair, arms folded. She looked more puzzled than he had ever seen her.

“I do not know. It certainly does not seem bad, at least.”

“Should we give it one more session?” He asked.

Realization dawned on her face, and she answered his question with one of her own.

“Was this the motivation behind your plan all along?”

“Yes,” he said, and felt terrible for it. After a pause, he added, “I’m sorry. I should have told you. Are you angry with me?”

To Steve’s surprise, she laughed. It was a loud laugh, and it boomed all over the room. Steve wasn’t sure that he had said anything funny. He wondered whether she was laughing at him.

“Angry, Captain?” She said eventually, with a smile. “No. I am not angry. Some of the biggest gains in science have been made out of spite, or stubbornness, or bloody-mindedness.”

“Which one was this?

“I think you have a bit of all three. I will give you your extra session, but my earlier warning remains. If everything goes south, I will have no choice but to terminate your sessions.”

* * *

The following week, Steve returned to the beach house. He knew what he wanted to do, and there was no sense doing it anywhere else. As soon as he woke up in the SIRE, he rushed to get dressed, and he winded his small body in the process. It took several minutes for his breathing to return to order.

When he finally stepped out of the room and looked to the ground floor, he saw the Winter Soldier waiting for him. He was inside and standing in front of the door, and he looked like he would rather be anywhere else. Everything in his posture seemed coiled, even despite the gun in his left hand. He could kill, but he looked to Steve like a hunted animal, ready to run away at the first sense of danger.

And yet, for all his evident misery, he did not leave. Instead, he watched Steve come down the stairs with trepidation writ large all over his face.

Steve stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and made no attempts to move any closer. He held onto the newel and gripped it tightly.

“Do you know who I am?” He said, eventually.

Very slowly, the Soldier shook his head. “No. Should I?”

“I don’t believe you.” Steve said. It scared him to say it. His eyes briefly drifted towards the gun, but he forced himself to look back up.

“I’m looking for Captain America.” Said the Soldier.

“You mean Steve Rogers,” Steve replied.

The sound of the name seemed to pain the Soldier. He shook his head like he was trying to shake away a stray thought. He closed his eyes and brought his free hand to his temple for a moment.

“Steve Rogers.” He repeated, eyes still shut. “Yeah.”

“You found him. You found me.”

The Winter Soldier looked up at him, and tightened his grip on his gun.

“No.” He said. “He’s big. You’re small. He’s healthy. You get rheumatic fever.”

Steve’s breath caught in his chest, but his surprise didn’t hold a candle to the Soldier’s, who had heard his own words and was now staring at Steve like he was nuclear. Steve took a step forward towards him. The Soldier took a step backwards towards the door.

“You know who I am.” Steve told him. “You do.”

“How?”

“We were friends, a long time ago.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You just did. A part of you does. You remembered I had rheumatic fever. You took care of me when I was sick.”

The Soldier reached a hand behind him to the door. He steadied himself against it and looked down towards the carpet like he was thinking hard. It looked like he was trying to remember something.

“Tell me anything you can remember,” Steve said, softly.

The soldier frowned and closed his eyes. His brows creased, and several minutes passed in silence. Steve didn’t want to say anything that might disrupt his train of thought. Instead, he focused on trying to quell the hope that was blooming all over his chest.

It was too early to feel hope. He didn’t want to tempt the universe to take it away from him.

“Draughty windows,” the Soldier said, finally. “Draughty windows, and never enough blankets. Canned soup.”

Then he looked up at Steve, searching his face for a clue as to whether he had been right. Steve nodded in encouragement and the Soldier closed his eyes again, as though he would try and recall more, but then he shook his head.

“That’s okay.” Steve said. “You did good.”

“I see this picture in my head,” the Soldier began uncertainly. “That’s about it.”

“That’s a memory. It’s yours. It’s who you are.”

“But I don’t look like me in it.”

“You changed. So did I. But I’m still me and you’re still you, even if you can’t remember it.”

And then, miracle of miracles, the Soldier took the gun in his hand and uncocked it. He placed it down on a small circular table near the door. He took a couple of steps towards Steve.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He said, confused. “You’re Captain America, but -- I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Do you feel like you should?” Steve asked him.

“Yes,” said the Soldier, without hesitation. He sat down, and held his head in his hands. He stared blankly down at the table, although he seemed to be looking past it. “I feel like I _should_ hurt you, but I can’t.”

“You could. You’re easily twice my size”

“Then I don’t want to.”

“You have, before.”

“I didn’t know he was you. I didn’t remember him. But I remember you.”

Steve moved towards the table and sat down in a seat next to him. He desperately wanted to reach out and touch him. He knew he wasn’t dealing with Bucky yet, but the Soldier now was as close to Bucky as he had ever been. He looked disorientated and Steve’s heart ached for him, and whatever the hell was going on in his mind.

“I’m sorry,” said the Soldier, unprompted.

“For what.”

“I don’t know. But I am.”  He said. Then, he looked up, and there was direction in his eyes. A purpose. “Can you do something for me?

“Anything,” Steve replied, immediately.

The Soldier paused for a long moment. Then, he said, “Tell me who I am.”

* * *

When Steve woke up in Wakanda, several hours later, he was so overwhelmed that he started crying before he even had the energy to open his eyes.

Dr Ka’La had no context for his sudden tears, and she jumped to the immediate conclusion that something had gone terribly wrong. He willed himself to calm down, to regulate his breathing, and he accepted the tissues she offered him. Then he pulled himself upright and swore to her that he was alright. Better than alright, he told her. They had talked.

They had talked for almost the full six hours. Or at least, Steve had talked and the Soldier had listened. Sometimes he asked questions. Steve took him through whatever he could remember of kindergarden, of St Mary of the Angels elementary school, of high school, art school. He talked to the Soldier about his family and his sisters, and the night he was drafted, and the serum, and Azzano and the train. The more Steve told him, the more the Soldier was able to recall and piece things together himself.

Steve had even called him Buck, once, and he had answered to it.

* * *

Steve didn’t ask to return to the beach house the following week. He asked to be sent somewhere new and Dr Ka’La counselled him against it.

She told him that they seemed to be making progress, and that it would be best to keep as many variables consistent as possible. He saw her point, but asked her to send them somewhere new anyway. He would go back into SIRE as his pre-serum self, but he wanted to change the venue.

He nursed a small, terrifying fear that the progress they had made would be confined to that beach house. He needed to reproduce the results elsewhere, if only for his own peace of mind.

This time, Steve let her choose where to go. She sent him back to San Junipero in 1987, a small seaside town in the middle of nowhere. She told him that people went there to drink and dance and forget. She had been there on holiday once, and she told him that it held the happiest of her memories. She sent him there, in the hope that it might do the same for him.

* * *

Steve eventually woke up in what looked like an adolescent’s bedroom. The walls were lined with posters of musicians, some of whom he recognised, but most of whom he didn’t. It was a riot of colour, and loud hair, and clothing that was mismatched for that same sake. He stared up at the posters, dumbstruck, and wondered how in hell he would blend in, especially in his pre-serum body.

Luckily, he found a button-down shirt and a pair of brown slacks on a chair. There was a black and white gingham sweater in the closet as well. He threw it all on, knowing that the ensemble looked terrible, and made his way out onto the street.

Outside, the street was awash with pedestrians, and he couldn't see any cars. The flood of people looked much like the faces in the posters, calamitous and yet somehow put together, and everyone seemed happy, and loud, and free. The tide of the crowd was heading left down the street, and he saw bright neon lights in the distance. He joined the tide, and walked towards them.

The walk took him a good ten minutes, and the lights came into focus as a circular sign for a nightclub. It was called “Tucker’s”, with the name spelled in pink neon. Two palm trees, both in neon green, flanked the words on either side. Steve had idea whether he would find Bucky or the Soldier inside, but he had nowhere else to go.

He stepped inside and immediately, a wall of music hit him, louder than anything he had ever heard. The lights were dim, and the floor ahead of him seemed to pulse with people dancing. For once, he recognised the song - _Heaven is a Place on Earth_ , or something. He knew it only because it was Pepper’s favourite song.

He stood just inside the entrance while his eyes adjusted to the dimness. It took longer in this old body than his new one one, but eventually, he could see well enough to scan the room.

And there, at the bar, stood Bucky.

Not the Soldier, but _Bucky_. He hadn’t noticed Steve come in, which was fine by Steve, whose heart had started drumming and _hard_. He would need a minute. Maybe several.

Bucky’s back was to the bar, and he leaned against it with his elbows. His hair was all slicked back, with the exception of a stray bundle of locks that had given in to gravity. They now hung loosely around his forehead, and Steve longed to tuck them back for him. Steve looked down at his own get-up and realized that he had come dressed like a valedictorian, whereas Bucky looked like a teenage dream.

But Bucky looked in his element here, and he surveyed the room like a king holding court. That ability, to own any room he walked in, filled Steve with a blinding envy of Bucky as much as it aroused him.

Eventually, Bucky’s own scan of the room revealed Steve, and their eyes met across the floor. Bucky stared at him in shock for several moments, and Steve realized that Bucky might not have been expecting him in this form. He found himself blushing, without knowing why, but Bucky gave him a wolfish smile and weaved a path through the crowd over to him.

When Bucky was close enough, Steve reached for him and kissed him without thinking. It was harder now - he hadn’t kissed anyone from this height in a long time. But Bucky’s muscle memory made up for a lack of his own, and he felt Bucky lean down and wrap arms come around him. Steve tasted rum and coke and the hunger of prolonged absence on his lips.

“You’ve been up to mischief.” Said Bucky, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“Maybe.” Steve replied, breathless.

“And you’re small.” Bucky continued. He stepped back and his eyes scanned a path from Steve’s head to his toes and back.  “Where’d the rest of you go?”.

“Do you like it?”

“I like you every which way, Rogers."

Without warning, he crowded Steve up against the wall and kissed him again, till his knees almost gave way. Then he took his hand and began leading him through the bar. Steve followed blindly, his lips swollen and too light without the force of Bucky’s mouth on them. He wanted to leave the goddamn club and take Bucky somewhere with a bed, but he knew he had to explain a few things first.

They walked up a set of steps to a balcony, which wound around the four walls of the club. It was darker up here and it was lined with booths, most of which were empty. The ones which were occupied held people who had things to do in the darkness. Steve’s eyes drifted towards them as Bucky pulled him into an empty booth.

“Sit.” Bucky ordered, and joined him. He took another look at Steve and let out a deep breath. “Jesus fuck, Steve. Look at you."

Steve smiled at him, and reached out to touch his face. He couldn’t resist.. “There’s a good reason.” He said, “I swear. But you talk first, and then I’ll talk.”

“I don’t know what happened.” Bucky began, and he was more animated than Steve had seen him in a long time. “Normally, when the session’s over, I feel like I’m falling back asleep. The next time I’m aware of anything is when I wake up in another session. Only this time - I felt like i gained awareness before the session began.”

“What do you mean? By awareness?” Said Steve.

Bucky paused for a moment before he answered. “I don’t know if I can explain it. But I felt like I had the choice to turn up as myself or the other guy. And I chose myself obviously - but that choice wasn’t a thing before. The last time the Soldier turned up, in the session before Rome, I had no idea I was even there, even as him.”

“And this time was different?” Steve asked.

“Yeah. Because I had control,” said Bucky, He looked pointedly at Steve. “You did something. What was it?”

So Steve recounted their last visit to the beach house, in as much detail as he could manage. He took him through the idea to come back as his pre-serum self, and the Soldier’s memory of his rheumatic fever, and every era of their history that he had covered in that long conversation. He talked until his throat was dry and his voice turned hoarse, and Bucky had to go find him a glass of water.

“Did you expect to see him or me tonight? Bucky asked, after Steve had polished off the glass.

“I wanted to see you. I always want to see you.” Steve replied. “But for once, I didn’t care whether I saw the other guy instead. I feel like he was making progress.”

“I hope you’re right.” Bucky said. “I feel like you might be.”

Steve moved closer to him and reached out for him. Bucky gathered him up in his arms and they held each other for a while, as the club thrummed with life around them. It felt good being small again, if only for the reason that Bucky was now large enough to envelop him entirely. It felt safe, and he held onto the feeling.

“I want you out of cryo, Buck.” Steve said, into Bucky’s shoulder. “I miss you. I’m sick of missing you.”

“Well, I’m here.” Bucky said, kissing the top of his head. He looked back towards the crowd. “I still can’t believe you brought me to a dance. I thought you hated dancing.”

Steve sat up, and hoped against his better judgment that Bucky wasn’t getting any ideas. “I still hate dancing.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever told me why.” Said Bucky.

“Because I had to watch you with half the girls in the neighbourhood on your arm.” Said Steve indignantly.

Bucky grinned, and said, “What did you want me to do? They were good dancers. I was a good dancer. You never stepped more than a foot away from the goddamned wall.”

“You goaded me!” Steve told him. He had been bitter about it as a youth, but it seemed trifling next to their current stack of problems. “You knew I was watching, and you knew I was raging.”

“And you know why, right?” Bucky said.

“Because you’re a bastard,” Steve replied.

“Because jealousy always made you fuck good.” Bucky said, and then he moved to stand up, with a smile like the devil. “Which is why I’m going downstairs, to dance, and why you’re going to come with me.”

“No, Bucky.” Steve complained.

“I’m not giving you a choice, Rogers. Get up, or I take you down there over my shoulder.”

So they walked. Somewhere between the stairs and the middle of the floor, Bucky discarded his jacket. Steve watched him move through the crowd, and for the first time, his soul looked young. His body started moving to songs that Steve knew he had never heard, and when he found a spot he liked, he stayed there. He closed his eyes and started swaying, and his hair began to fall out of place.

“What do I do?” Steve called to him, right over the music.

“Start moving.” Bucky called back. “Relax.”

Which was easy for him to say. Bucky had a better command of his hips than most people had of their feet. In his pre-serum body, Steve had command of neither, but Bucky wanted him to dance, and he wanted to make Bucky happy, so he started copying everyone around him.

He felt like a tool. He _looked_ like a tool, but at least none of the people around them were real, and Bucky was watching him with unfettered amusement. That, at least, made it worth enduring.

Six or seven songs in, Bucky pulled him in and placed his mouth to Steve’s ear.

“You look like a wreck.” He said. “I love you.”

“Are you finished dancing?” Steve asked. When Bucky nodded, he fixed Bucky with a look, and moved in the direction of the bathroom. He didn’t have to look behind him to know that Bucky was following.

The bathroom was deserted, and Steve had barely locked the door to their stall when Bucky’s hand moved towards his belt. His pants were at his feet before he knew what was going on, and Bucky’s mouth was around his dick before he could figure out what he wanted. 

But this would do. This would do very well. He threaded one hand in Bucky’s hair, and held the other against the door, and tried to stay upright. He forgot how good Bucky was at this, and Bucky wasn’t wasting any time in reminding him. Bucky’s mouth moved over him, and up him,  warm and wet and pressured, and Steve bit down so hard on his lips that he tasted blood.

On the verge of coming, Bucky pulled away from him and stood up to undo his own trousers. His hands fumbled in his impatience and Steve took over for him, undoing the zip and button. Bucky made good use of his own and wrapped a hand around Steve, rubbing at him till his knees were fit to give way. Both their lips were swollen. Both their pupils were blown.

“Turn around.” Bucky said hoarsely, kissing him then flipping him over against the wall,

Steve heard Bucky slick his dick with spit, and felt Bucky push into him not long after that, one of his hands still curled around Steve’s dick. Steve moaned louder than he had any right to in a public place, but he had forgotten how good it was when Bucky was twice his size.

Bucky’s free hand reflexively moved to cover his mouth, like the good old days, and he pressed his lips to Steve’s ear as he began pushing into him. Bucky’s breaths came out ragged, becoming synchronised with each of his thrusts. Steve could feel his own hips bumping into the wall, and he knew that they would probably bruise later, but he didn’t give a shit. He could feel Bucky against every part of his body. That was all he wanted.

Bucky fucked him till his hand couldn’t muffle the sounds Steve was making anymore, and then Bucky couldn’t control his pace anymore, and it always happened like this, with them pushing each other over like dominoes. Steve came first in Bucky’s fist, which was still wrapped around him like a furnace, and he felt Bucky shudder into him almost immediately after.

They gasped for air and stayed together, coming down to earth. When their breathing calmed down, Bucky kissed the top of his head, his cheek, his neck. Steve felt like he would float away without Bucky’s weight behind him.

Bucky cleaned himself up first, and then he cleaned up Steve, and they shared a long, lingering kiss before emerging from the stall to wash their hands. Their eyes met in the mirror.

“How long have we got?” Bucky asked.

Steve looked down at his watch and said, “Three hours. Why? Round two?”

“No.” Bucky said, and with a small smile, he clarified himself. “Pizza. Then round two.”

* * *

When Steve woke up at the end of the session, it was with a full heart and more hope than he should have dared to have.

A sensible part of him told him to contain it, not to tempt the universe to take it away, but each successive image of the night that came back to him did more to smother his caution. His history with Bucky was a series of struggles, and he felt like the two of them could never see further than the next obstacle. But now, he felt like they had cleared something big from their path, and for once, they seemed to see the horizon in front of them.

Dr Ka’La gave him more time than usual to wake up and debrief her. When he did, he spoke of what Bucky had told him with such excitement that she had to stop him multiple times, in order to keep her notes on track. If he said the word “control” to her once, he said it a dozen times, but only because Bucky had used it so frequently that day. Bucky had said it like it was in a foreign language to him, like it was a concept newly learned.

Steve even dared to express his optimism about Bucky’s recovery to Dr Ka’La - and to the joy of his heart, she dared to share it.

Later in the week, she summoned him and told him that the sessions would be suspended for the time being, and she asked him to be patient with her. Later the following week, she summoned him again, and told him that Bucky would be coming out of cryo.

* * *

They let Steve in the room when they brought Bucky back. They weren’t going to, initially, but he visited Dr Ka’La to pester her in person for a week until she gave in. She agreed on the condition that he would not approach or interact with Bucky until he was given permission to do so. Steve agreed in a heartbeat. He would have agreed to anything.

He stood as far away from the chamber as the walls would let him go, and watched as Dr Ka’La give orders to her team. A white and then a light blue gas filled the chamber, and then drained from it, obscuring Bucky and then bringing him back into view. The room fell into total silence as the team seemed to wait for something, though Steve had no idea what it was.

And then, very suddenly, Bucky’s chest rose, and fell. He took a breath, and let it out, and took another one.

Two members of Dr Ka’La’s team shared a discreet high-five. Bucky opened his eyes and scanned the room, and he found Steve as though he had known he would be there.

Steve smiled at him and Bucky’s eyes softened. Together, they had been everywhere and nowhere of late, but for once, Steve gave thanks for the here, and the now.


	2. "Quit It (Hit it And)"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The magnificence that triggered the fic, in all of its glory.

**Author's Note:**

> First, the idea for the SIRE does not belong to me. It comes from a show called Black Mirror, from S03E03. The episode is called San Junipero, and I hope that even if you haven't watched it, you could make sense of this fic. [If you have watched it, ISN'T IT GREAT.]
> 
> Second, may the sky rain endless gumdrops and good things on bopeep for her wonderful art, and all the wonderful hours I passed writing this as a result of her. I had to claim it as soon as I saw it, and I'm so glad I did!
> 
> Third, I *really* hope you enjoyed this fic, and I'm so grateful to you for reading it. I would love for you to leave a comment, if you can. Cookies and concrit are both equally welcome!


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